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Authors: Nancy Barone
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Happy Meals as I worked out my war strategy.
Was he going to be a decent man at least now and share the responsibilities? Notice how he didn’t ask for my forgiveness. Not that it was happening. Or would he go as far as claiming full custody? That wasn’t happening, for two reasons.
The first was obvious and the second was that it would never even occur to Ira. What the hell was he going to do with their continuous arguing, the constant questions (that’s the way kids learn , I’d told him) and the howling when he failed to pay attention to them? But maybe, just maybe, out of vengeance, I would reward him with every-other-weekend custody, that way he wouldn’t be able to flop onto the sofa and watch his Saturday games and Sunday reports. It would serve him right. But it would also kill me to think of them abandoned to their own devices while Ira acted as if they weren’t even there.
To hell with him. It was time for a change. Many changes, in fact. That was it. Time to go on a real, no-nonsense diet. It was settled. No more waiting until the involtini or the lasagne leftovers were finished. There would always be good food around me and I just had to learn to deal with it. Besides, I owed it to myself as well to keep fit and healthy for my children. I didn’t want to be clutching at my heart, collapsing and leaving them in Ira’s hands, did I? No, it was definitely time.
One week later, when I got home dripping with rain and groceries after a trip to the supermarket (I didn’t even look at the snack-food shelves!), I hardly recognized our house. I can’t begin to describe it. Magazines, videogames, Chinese takeaway cartons strewn all over the floor, the coffee table and even the sofa. A baseball game was on full blast, and so were the kids, hyper to their limit, bouncing off the walls and running around and rolling over my pristine sofa with sticky fingers. The kitchen sink, a glance told me, was loaded to the ceiling with dirty dishes, and even some dirty clothes littered the hallway.
“Hi, Mom!” was Warren’s greeting as he sped by me on a skateboard. On my wooden floors. And that’s when I realized that smack dab in the middle of it all, sitting in his favorite armchair, was Ira, hidden by his usual paper. So much for his promise to be there for the kids. I preferred it when he wasn’t.
Keep it light, girl, went the voice inside my head, and I tried to erase the image of me going around to the local gun shop to buy a bazooka. Just until the New Year. Then Ira would be gone and my house would be a nicer one. In every sense.
I put down my bag and he looked up.
“Hey… here’s dinner,” he said, nudging a carton of leftover Chinese takeaway (which he knows I absolutely hate and can’t eat anyway) with his foot. Now, I’m sure you think I’m exaggerating just a little. I can assure you I’m not.
Just two more months, I told myself. And then I’m really free. “Why are the kids still up? It’s ten o’clock.”
He shrugged. “They didn’t want to go to bed just yet,” he answered, still camouflaged in his sports section.
“Ira, they never want to go. They’re kids . It’s up to us to set the rules. Just how much chocolate did you let them have? And look at this place!”
Ira glared at me and stalked into the guest room, slamming the door. And to think I’d once been prepared to stick a rubber duckie in my mouth all night for him.
* * *
“I heard,” Marcy said as I was chopping parsley and garlic with my brand new half-moon cutter. She was pretending to visit her grandchildren; i.e., downing a martini. She and this conversation were the last things I needed after the day I’d had.
“He told you?” I asked through tight lips, as if she was trying to pull all my teeth out and keeping my mouth firmly shut would actually stop her. I put my half-moon cutter down and speared her with my hairy eyeball.
She took a sip from her martini and said coolly, “Ira’s not very good at
Was he going to be a decent man at least now and share the responsibilities? Notice how he didn’t ask for my forgiveness. Not that it was happening. Or would he go as far as claiming full custody? That wasn’t happening, for two reasons.
The first was obvious and the second was that it would never even occur to Ira. What the hell was he going to do with their continuous arguing, the constant questions (that’s the way kids learn , I’d told him) and the howling when he failed to pay attention to them? But maybe, just maybe, out of vengeance, I would reward him with every-other-weekend custody, that way he wouldn’t be able to flop onto the sofa and watch his Saturday games and Sunday reports. It would serve him right. But it would also kill me to think of them abandoned to their own devices while Ira acted as if they weren’t even there.
To hell with him. It was time for a change. Many changes, in fact. That was it. Time to go on a real, no-nonsense diet. It was settled. No more waiting until the involtini or the lasagne leftovers were finished. There would always be good food around me and I just had to learn to deal with it. Besides, I owed it to myself as well to keep fit and healthy for my children. I didn’t want to be clutching at my heart, collapsing and leaving them in Ira’s hands, did I? No, it was definitely time.
One week later, when I got home dripping with rain and groceries after a trip to the supermarket (I didn’t even look at the snack-food shelves!), I hardly recognized our house. I can’t begin to describe it. Magazines, videogames, Chinese takeaway cartons strewn all over the floor, the coffee table and even the sofa. A baseball game was on full blast, and so were the kids, hyper to their limit, bouncing off the walls and running around and rolling over my pristine sofa with sticky fingers. The kitchen sink, a glance told me, was loaded to the ceiling with dirty dishes, and even some dirty clothes littered the hallway.
“Hi, Mom!” was Warren’s greeting as he sped by me on a skateboard. On my wooden floors. And that’s when I realized that smack dab in the middle of it all, sitting in his favorite armchair, was Ira, hidden by his usual paper. So much for his promise to be there for the kids. I preferred it when he wasn’t.
Keep it light, girl, went the voice inside my head, and I tried to erase the image of me going around to the local gun shop to buy a bazooka. Just until the New Year. Then Ira would be gone and my house would be a nicer one. In every sense.
I put down my bag and he looked up.
“Hey… here’s dinner,” he said, nudging a carton of leftover Chinese takeaway (which he knows I absolutely hate and can’t eat anyway) with his foot. Now, I’m sure you think I’m exaggerating just a little. I can assure you I’m not.
Just two more months, I told myself. And then I’m really free. “Why are the kids still up? It’s ten o’clock.”
He shrugged. “They didn’t want to go to bed just yet,” he answered, still camouflaged in his sports section.
“Ira, they never want to go. They’re kids . It’s up to us to set the rules. Just how much chocolate did you let them have? And look at this place!”
Ira glared at me and stalked into the guest room, slamming the door. And to think I’d once been prepared to stick a rubber duckie in my mouth all night for him.
* * *
“I heard,” Marcy said as I was chopping parsley and garlic with my brand new half-moon cutter. She was pretending to visit her grandchildren; i.e., downing a martini. She and this conversation were the last things I needed after the day I’d had.
“He told you?” I asked through tight lips, as if she was trying to pull all my teeth out and keeping my mouth firmly shut would actually stop her. I put my half-moon cutter down and speared her with my hairy eyeball.
She took a sip from her martini and said coolly, “Ira’s not very good at
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